


While We Come Undone

by loverofthelight24



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 6x01, And their sex is meaningful AF, But Stiles tries to fight back, F/M, Fluff, Humor? Comedy? Idk I hope some parts are funny, Lydia teases the shit out of Stiles, Porn with Feelings, Romance, Smut, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 14:12:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10992558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loverofthelight24/pseuds/loverofthelight24
Summary: It’s simple, but he can’t help but watch her like a helpless, thirsty man as the hem barely reaches the backs of her creamy thighs while it flounces behind her. He notices that there doesn’t seem to be a sliver of fabric covering them and yep, he’s already dead.Mark it on his grave as; “Here lies Mieczyslaw ‘Stiles’ Stilinski. Loving son and brother who died as a result of Lydia Martin’s successful attempts of seducing him by going commando in a dress.”





	While We Come Undone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ode_to_ships](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ode_to_ships/gifts).



> Disclaimer: Basically, this fic differs from canon in the fact that Stiles does NOT get taken by the Wild Hunt in 6x01, so the moment in the lunch quad (picture below) accelerated the love confession by Stydia getting down and dirty ;)
> 
> To Cassie: You are my own lil’ source of light. Thank you for always being so supportive and willing to beta for me, and not being annoyed talking to me every day. You are simply the greatest thing I have obtained from being in this fandom, and I really can’t imagine being internet best friends (or one of my closest friends in general) with anyone other than you. This is for you, I love you so incredibly much (ALSO THANK YOU FOR WRITING THAT TRANSITION FROM ANGST TO SMUT WHEN I WAS BLOCKED, YOU ARE SO TALENTED BAE!!!)
> 
> To Allison: MOM! Thank you for always being so eloquent and helpful, both with fic writing and other life problems. Out of all the times I was suffering from writer’s block, you picked me right back up with your warmth and relentless motivation. I love you, thank you for being the best second mom ever. 
> 
> To the rest of my DOB girls (Lori, Prags, Janey and Pantsie): You guys are simply the best. I’m so honored to be surrounded by such strong, powerful women on an otherwise hurtful social media platform such as stan twitter. You guys have made me into a better, more thoughtful person in the relatively short time we’ve known each other. I look up to you guys more than you know, and I love y’all an indescribable amount.

 

Stiles Stilinski was sure Lydia Martin was trying to kill him.

Not literally of course, but as Stiles is well aware of, there is more than one way you can kill a man.

 **#1:** Literally put your hands around their neck and squeeze until they’re limp.

 **#2:** Shoot them anywhere torso up (or a little more south, depending on your style).

Or Lydia’s preferred method, **#3:** Wearing short, ass-skimming dresses while biting your lipstick stained lips, or by spraying vanilla perfume on your neck so that when he sits behind you in Calculus, he can smell it beneath the strawberry curtain of your hair. Oh, and also inserting random bits of French in every day conversation because you’re Lydia fucking Martin and everything you do turns Stiles on.

Scratch that; he was certain Lydia Martin was trying to _torture_ him. Problem is? He has no idea why she would want to do such a cruel, heinous thing. However, the solution (as of lately) has been Stiles’ vigilance in appearing unfazed by her attempts. She speaks French? He replies in English, despite not understanding one word she said. He catches a glimpse of her ass in the hallway whenever she bends over to drink from the fountain? He turns around. She leans back in her chair, so much so that his nose buries in the smooth expanse of her neck? He spits a little on it.

And even when she should be disgusted by his saliva running down her neck, she only turns around in her seat; slowly, deliberately and quietly, and brings one perfectly manicured to her neck and lathers it with his saliva before sucking on it between her raspberry smothered lips. The worst part is, that she looks into his eyes the whole time, never flinching or wavering even when he downright mouths a moan at the sight.

While Mr. Pierce drones on about the Inverse Chain Rule Method, Lydia only bites on her finger and swirls her tongue around the tip for the rest of class, while Stiles is forced to hide a painfully obvious hard-on for thirty-seven more minutes. Covering his protruding boner with his binder, Stiles makes a bee-line to the bathroom seconds before the bell even rings, leaving a smirking and satisfied Lydia Martin in his wake.

Seven minutes and one half-assed hand job later, he manages to stagger out of the bathroom and into the courtyard for lunch. Quickly, he locates Scott and Malia sitting in their typical, back corner spot on the patio. He sighs in relief, noticing how Lydia isn’t in her usual seat next to Scott yet. But he knows Lydia and she’s always one step ahead, now literally as she soon walks from the opposite side of the patio to the table and, oh God– she fucking _changed_ her outfit.

“Hey, Stiles!”

Earlier in Calculus, she wore dark skinny jeans and a solid blue blouse. Of course Stiles thought she looked beautiful then (c’mon, he gave himself a handy over a grimy public toilet bowl because of her). However, she’s now wearing a very thin, _very_ short floral sundress. The worst part of it is that it’s not even low cut, or strapless; in fact, it’s a simple long-sleeved number with no cleavage whatsoever.

“Stiles?" 

It’s simple, but he can’t help but watch her like a helpless, thirsty man as the hem barely reaches the backs of her creamy thighs while it flounces behind her. He notices that there doesn’t seem to be a sliver of fabric covering them and yep, he’s already dead.

Mark it on his grave as; “Here lies Mieczyslaw ‘Stiles’ Stilinski. Loving son and brother who died as a result of Lydia Martin’s successful attempts of seducing him by going commando in a dress.”

“Earth to Stiles! You there?”

And suddenly, he’s standing dumbfounded in front of the table with Scott and Malia gaping at him concerned and Lydia smirking in delight. Narrowing his eyes at her, she catches it and rolls her eyes amusedly as she nonchalantly copies equations in her planner, her dress hiking up higher as she moves.

“You okay?”

He tears his eyes away from her, steeling them on anyone but Lydia as he plasters on a big, cosmetic smile in preparation to answer Malia.

“I’m just _peachy_ , actually.”

“Are you sure, dude?” Scott asks. “You seem stressed. Actually, you may be sublimating the stress of graduating by avoiding key milestones.”

Now everyone, including the ever-unfazed Lydia, is looking at Scott in utter confusion.

“Psych paper.”

Everyone nods at Scott’s answer, mouthing “ _oh’s_ ” as he rolls his eyes exasperatedly, turning back to highlighting his Psych textbook yellow. Malia just resorts to picking the purple varnish off her nails, while Lydia “absentmindedly” rubs her thighs together beneath the table. And he may simply be a horny teenage boy but if there’s one thing his weak human ass is good at, it’s putting up a decent fight (he’s sort of hoping he loses this one, though).

This is exactly what she wants, right? To watch him wither and shake in the palm of her hand and enjoy her role in not reciprocating his reaction. Stiles is realistic; he knows that he’ll always be embarrassingly eager to give that piece of him to Lydia, no questions asked, but that doesn’t mean that he can’t play along with her too.

“Wow, it’s a hot one today!” He blurts out, fanning his face and puffing air out of his mouth exaggeratedly. “Isn’t it, guys?”

“Probably because you wear flannels in 90 degree weather,” Scott surmises, oblivious to Lydia’s narrowing of her eyes at Stiles due to his lack of subtlety.

It’s not like Stiles to usually be so ballsy, but he’s spent the summer conditioning for lacrosse and running all around the woods like a flailing madman, searching for anything possibly supernatural related so he knows that he’s built up some muscle. Hopefully, it renders Lydia somewhat speechless just this once. Hell, he’s spent years and countless times of speechlessness because of her.

(Not that Lydia owes him anything because of that, but _reciprocity is key_ , as she always says.)

“You’re right, Scotty. I should probably take it off,” he says. “Right, Lydia?”

Before she can even come up with a snippy, deprecating comment, he’s already shrugged the flannel off (awkwardly with a few instances of flailing, of course), leaving him in a basic, slightly too small and tight gray t-shirt.

He’s sure Scott and Malia are completely and utterly confused by his actions in the past few seconds, but Lydia is raking her eyes over his arms like she wants to devour him whole and he’s between wanting to lay her on this table right here, right now and also wanting to continue seeing her starve for him.

He’s also really, _really_ trying to seem indifferent right now, but it’s not an easy task for him to conquer. He doesn’t know why he expected it to be like that in the slightest, because all it takes is seeing the milky skin of her thighs knead together, now unintentionally, as she starts fires with the moss of her eyes on his skin and suddenly, he’s launched into the latest supernatural discussion to distract himself from blowing his load right then and there.

“– _Hey_! So the Deputy searched the car. No slugs, no exit hole.”

They just blink at him, obviously not following his line of logic and still bewildered by his behavior in general.

“And the address Alex gave my dad, it's an abandoned house….”

Again, he’s met with no response. He tried, but she’s winning, and he’s drowning in the white of her thighs and the roses that melt into them from the skirt of her dress.

“C’mon! Missing parents, suspicious guy on horseback, magic bullet,” he exclaims frantically. “Who's coming with?

“I've got to retake my photos,” Malia answers. By the glare in her eyes, he knows he probably fucked her photos up while he was under the typical Lydia Martin spell earlier.

But now she’s actively trying to pull him under it and it’s more frustrating than anything because now she’s fucking _straddling_ the table’s bench. The roses on her dress are blooming and shriveling all at once because like him, they don’t know how to react to Lydia Martin not wearing any underwear and sitting like _that._

“Yeah, not interested,” Lydia answers, and he can’t help but zero in on her disadvantage in this whole situation; he knows what she’s trying to do, and he can expose her at any moment’s notice.

“Really, Lydia? You’re not interested?”

Licking her lips, she wipes some of her raspberry lip balm off with the tip of her tongue. She’s saving it for Stiles to taste later and he’s trying _so_ hard.

“Nope, not at all.”

“So nowadays, does being uninterested involve not wearing any–”

“ _OKAY,_ Stiles and I are going to check out the house,” Lydia exclaims, suddenly standing up from the table.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come?”

“No! I mean– it’s okay, Scott,” Lydia says, masking the frantic tugging on Stiles’ wrist with the soft, calm timbre of her voice. “You missed 38 classes last semester. Stiles and I can handle it on our own.”

Scott only smirks. “Oh, I’m sure you guys can.”

Malia makes a noise of agreement and Stiles is reminded that both her and Scott can smell pheromones by the way she’s wrinkling her nose. Also, his boner is achingly obvious beneath the black denim of his jeans as both Malia and Scott glance towards it. His best friend, who’s more like a brother, and his ex-girlfriend are publicly witnessing just how weak he is beneath Lydia Martin’s fingertips. File this under: “One of Stiles’ more humiliating moments in his lifetime.”

But before he can dwell much on it, Lydia is suddenly whisking him away from the lunch quad as Stiles hears Scott and Malia’s snickers growing more distant behind him. It’s okay though, because he can feel her fingers press white in his wrist and see the delicate cheeks of her ass as her dress billows behind her.

Suddenly, he’s awakened with the realization that she’s heading straight for his jeep in the parking lot and holy _shit_ , this isn’t just a game of flirtation and harmless seduction. She actually wants to go further; Lydia Martin might seriously want to have sex with him. In his _jeep._

“Lydia, what are you–”

“Where are your keys, Stiles?”

Fuck, she _is_ serious.

“Holy shit - I mean, jeez Lydia; at least buy me dinner first. I personally am down for filet mignon, maybe with some potatoes–”

“Stiles,” she says, turning to him for a fleeting second to show him just how deathly serious she is. “Shut up and give me your keys.”

He audibly gulps, both somewhat afraid and incredibly turned on. “Yes sir - _I mean_ , ma’am.”

Quickly sticking his hand in his back pocket, he fishes and fumbles to find his miniature lightsaber key fob for a good ten seconds before he manages to hook his finger on them. He’s sure his sweat is dripping off of them, but Lydia doesn’t seem to mind as she practically snatches them from him. They’re only a few feet away from his blue hunk of metal, which is conveniently located in the far back of the parking lot (reminder to pat himself on the back later for waking up late this morning), when suddenly Lydia breaks from her grip on his wrist to manually unlock the car on the driver’s side, with Stiles following close behind her. As with everything, she fumbles way less than Stiles and unlocks the car with ease, hopping into the backseat and simultaneously tossing him his keys.

He catches them close to his heart, as he slowly looks up from his hands to gape at her. She looks in the rearview mirror, not bothering to fix her smudged lips as she hastily combs the ends of her hair with her fingertips. She looks over at him, noticing how silent and still he’s been for the past few moments, and immediately her eyes land on his own. Despite the pretense of it all, the way she’s boring into him, her expression shifting into something uncharacteristically vulnerable, feels pure.

“Lydia,” he says, breathlessly, as he finally touches her by placing his hand just above her knee. “Not that I’m complaining one bit, but why are we doing this, right now of all times?”

She glances at him for a few moments more, her mouth hanging slightly open before closing into a wry smile as she grabs onto his hand, lacing her fingers with his own. It’s tender and innocent as she brings their folded hands up to her mouth and places the most delicate of kisses upon the face of his hand, and he can’t believe how he pretended that he could resist her when she’s looking at him and touching him like _this._

“It’s simple: I want you, and not just for right now,” she whispers onto his hand, before lowering it onto the top of her thigh, hidden underneath the floral fabric of her dress. “Plus you need to repay me for dragging me out of bed like some sort of supernatural metal detector all summer so for the love of God - touch me, Stiles.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

Immediately, he launches into the backseat with her and kisses her, haphazardly closing the door behind him as he cups one side of her face with his free hand. It’s different than their first one; obviously, they aren’t sitting on the floor of a dingy locker room and she’s not kissing him for medical purposes. But still, the way she’s kissing him back is still allowing him to breathe, as she sighs beneath his lips like this is something she’s been waiting for. And as if he needed more reasons to, he wants her all the more.

He drags his other hand up from her thigh and he moans when he’s reminded how naked she already is when he runs his hands over the absence of lace on her hips. Instead, he grips her hips and feels the ridges of her scars painting them. He can feel her shudder beneath him when he discovers them, but he soothes it by removing his lips from her own and marking a trail with them across her cheeks, her nose, her lips (again), her chin and finally, her neck.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs into the juncture of her neck. “I can’t believe you’re here, doing this with _me_ \- Fuck, do you have any idea how much you turn me on?”

She answers him by flipping them over, so now she’s straddled on top of him and latching her mouth onto his neck. Running her fingers purposely across the bulge straining against his pants and now, her thighs.

“I think I may have an idea,” she replies, her smirk stretching onto his skin as she gently bites onto his collarbone, lathering it with her tongue when he moans beneath her. He tilts his head away from her, only to kiss her on the lips once again and raise his hands to tug her dress over her head.

However, it’s not until he feels the seat buckle digging into his spine that he fully realizes the magnitude of being in the backseat of his jeep. It’s the same backseat where he felt her blood and life slip between his own fingers. The same backseat where he pleaded with her to stay alive while also telling her that she was “going to make it,” even though it felt like a cruel lie at the time (in some ways, it still does).

And especially, the same backseat where she looked at him like she already was regretting the moments they missed out together and grasped his hand in a way that suggested maybe if she held it tight enough, she’ll be able to stay here with him. But death is a savage, untimely force that even the scream of a banshee can’t defeat. It’s a fact that was proven right then and there with Lydia becoming more of a shell each passing second, even with Stiles telling her she’s alive and _whole._

And now she’s the one pleading with him to stay here, but it feels wrong to ignore the fact that Lydia almost died in the same seat that he’s seducing her in months before.

“Stiles?”

_“Lydia?_

She stills for a moment, and it’s then that he starts to tremble underneath her. Immediately yet gently, she touches him to tell him she’s here, warm and alive. But he still feels smothered by the blood he caused to pour and the darkness that wages endlessly inside his mind. It wanders to Allison, and now he’s _drowning._

“Stiles? Come back to me, c’mon c’mon.”

_“C’mon c’mon, listen to me, Lydia.”_

He can’t. He can’t he can’t he _can’t._

 “It’s okay, Stiles. I’m here with you, please just open your eyes.”

_“Lydia, show me your eyes, okay?”_

And now, he’s not entirely sure if he’s in the backseat of his car with the girl he loves running her hands down her face, or at the clinic as the same girl lays dead and unmoving beneath him. Everything is blurry and confusing as he chokes on the air he’s living; the same air that Allison is not and that Lydia almost took her last breath with.

“Stiles _please_ , I love you. It’s okay - please believe me.”

Her voice, saying those three words that he never needed or expected her to say, is what leads him back. He doesn’t know why he thought otherwise, because suddenly she consumes his vision with a mussed strawberry-blonde halo, bleary green eyes and small freckles encompassing every scar and blemish on her fair chest as her dress pools around her ankles. It should overwhelm him, cause him to enter another severe panic attack, but instead his breath gradually grows slower and his hands relax against the cloth of the seat. All that crosses his mind is how much he loves her, and how lucky he is to have someone like her bring him back to the now.

And as long as she’s here, the _now_ is worth coming back to.

“You said it back,” he whispers, his mouth stretching into a watery smile as he reverently runs his thumb over the crease of her lips. “You didn’t have to.”

“But I knew it,” she says adamantly, leaning her head into the heel of his palm. “I felt it.”

_“Barrow was there, alright? You knew it, you felt it.”_

And really, he doesn’t need much more of an explanation after that.

He feels her lips trace his cheeks, his jaw, his lips, and he can't stop himself from pressing himself into her. She grounds him in ways that he's never experienced with anyone else while also setting him free. And God, he wants to give her back everything she’s ever given to him. Even though he knows he can’t, he’ll happily spend right now and every moment following it attempting to do so.

“Tell me what I can do, Lydia," he murmurs against her lips, an edge of pleading obvious in his tone as his fingers trace her spine. “Tell me what I can give you.”

“Just… just touch me, Stiles. Be here with me, and touch me," she whispers back. He's never been able to deny her anything, and he decides then that the place she almost died is exactly the same place he’s going to bring her back to life, with the length of his fingers and the curve of his mouth.

And softly, Stiles places the arrow of his lips against her shoulder, burying his nose in her cool skin as he peppers hot, open-mouthed kisses against it. His fingers drag against the ivory band of her bra until they reach the clasp. It’s then that he undoes it, hearing her moan in his ear as his deft fingers, as well as the bra, fall away from her body.

Mind you, Stiles has technically seen Lydia naked once before. It was sophomore year, after a two-day long fugue state when she reappeared in front of the tree line naked, shivering and terrified. Now, however, is inexplicably different. They’ve both matured due to things no teenager should ever have to go through, and they’ve both been immersed in their own respective dark places because of it. And while they entered them alone, they’ve broken free from them together, holding hands and whispering sentiments of hope to one another as their monsters drowned in the background.

And while he knows their environment isn’t exactly ideal for this, all he wants to do is take all the time he has left in this world, no matter how much or little, memorizing every faint or harsh line grazing her skin. He wants to remember the relieved, teary glint in her eyes, when he sees her naked before him and says:

“You’re so fucking beautiful.”

For one more moment, it’s beautifully still. They stare at one another, grazing each other’s faces with nimble thumbs as their breath evens out together. Once it does, Lydia plants a quick, yet longing kiss on the cleft of his chin before hooking her fingers around his t-shirt’s collar, quickly lifting it up as Stiles’ arms momentarily get stuck in his sleeves. He swallows his slight embarrassment and self-consciousness quickly though, because soon enough she’s trailing kisses down his torso, gradually sinking to her knees on the car floor the lower she goes.

“Holy shit, Lydia, you’re unreal,” he pants as he threads his fingers through her hair. “ _Fuck_ \- this is going to be over so mortifyingly fast.”

“Not if I have any say in it,” she teases, although he can tell by the heaviness in her breath and way she’s already working on his belt that he isn’t one sided in his weakness. And when his belt is snapped out from the loops of his pants, it isn’t long before he feels her lips on his lower abdomen and his pants sliding down his legs.

And now, the only factor that separates their bodies from becoming one is the light gray stretch of boxer briefs, a darker gray spot marking the source of his precum. She looks at it with intrigue, her head tilting slightly as her tongue swipes her bottom lip and he can’t help the desperate whine of her name that erupts from within the trenches of his chest.

“ _Lydia_ –”

She answers his pleas by shoving the remaining fabric down between them, marking them both completely stark naked within each other’s view. Then, her hand is on him and while Stiles has never been a huge fan of astronomy, he swears he can see brilliant cosmos of colors not yet defined shoot across his periphery.

“God, I’ll never get enough of you. Haven’t since the third grade, and now your soft little hands are on my dick and I’m so fucking certain I won’t. I mean, I’ve been pretty sure of it for a while now, but still this is fucking _holy_ , Lydia –”

Her hands trail off of him.

“Stiles?”

“Yeah?”

“I kind of need you inside of me,” she pants. “Preferably right now.”

Like he said, there’s never a time where he needs to be told twice in the case of Lydia Martin.

“Shit, yeah - of course,” he says, reaching for the foil packet in his wallet before she grabs his wrist, holding it against her hip as he looks at her confusedly for a second.

“I’m on the pill,” she says. “Plus, I want to feel you. _All_ of you.”

If the cosmos were shooting across when she put her hands on him, they’re downright _exploding_ when she tells him that. He gulps.

“God, yes Lydia,” he says, brushing a stray piece of auburn hair out of her eyes as she climbs up his lap to his level. “Whatever you want, it’s yours.”

She looks at him with such fondness and adoration in her eyes, that there’s still a small part of him that taunts and doubts that it’s reserved for him. When she grabs onto his shoulders as he lines them up and presses one last delicate kiss to his lips though, he understands.

“I love you,” she whispers against them. “Please don’t ever forget that.”

He kisses her back, putting as much fervor as he can into it while he finally pushes into her. And he’s not sure how he could ever forget that when the feeling of her, warm and tight and wrapped around him like they were made to mold together like this, is this fucking beautiful.

It’s achingly slow for a minute, as they both breathe and pant against another while accustoming to this position; Lydia on top of him while Stiles cups her ass cheeks, biting her shoulder in unadulterated pleasure every time she lurches forward and rubs harder against his dick.

“Fuck,” he swears, only to have a string of the same profanities follow. “You are so goddamn perfect, sitting here on top of my dick like you own it. You own every part of me, fucking hell –”

Whether she moans because of his words or because of the way he burrows inside her deepest parts and makes them ignite with inferno is uncertain. But she does so, loudly into the crook of his neck as he lathers her breasts with kisses and teeth.

“Fuck, Stiles -”

He snaps up into her faster, making sure to rub himself against her clit each time. And each time, she pulses against him as her moans grow louder and more high-pitched, and he sees the glowing precursor to release brighten when she bites into his shoulder.

“Do you remember – ah, fuck – do you remember how you were the first girl I ever danced with?”

She answers with a whine, pressing her breasts against his bare, sweaty chest as he continues to talk her through her release, while also talking himself through his own.

“Remember how I had a crush on you freshman year?”

She nods hastily, running her hands through his hair and tugging on it when he hits a specific spot inside. “Yes, fuck - _yes,_ Stiles….”

“Or sophomore year? Junior year?” He asks, his voice decimating in volume because he physically _can’t_ go any louder without spilling himself right then and there. Although his body is screaming at him to finish, he wants (needs) Lydia to finish first. He needs to give something to her. While he’s severely behind in giving her what she deserves, he’ll be okay if he can give her the first of making her feel both vulnerable and powerful at once, something he knows she’s never felt before in situations like this.

He knows she’s close, because her movements are becoming sloppy and harsh as she tries for friction anywhere. He gives it to her by pressing his thumb on her clit, massaging it as he slams up into her and says:

“Just remember, Lydia…. Remember I love you.”

And suddenly, she erupts with a wail that he wants to hear on loop for eternity and a wetness surging and clenching around his dick. After that, he can’t help the way he thrusts into her once more hard, before moaning into her mouth and emptying himself inside of her.

For a while, they remain like this; like shell-shocked people of a cold, harsh universe that just experienced pure and unadulterated love for the first time in a long time. They stick against each other with sweat and a tether that never relents and when Stiles presses a long kiss against her forehead, she leans into it because of the unexplainable, yet undeniable power of human _love._

Once their breath has returned to a relatively normal rate, they slide off one another as Stiles fishes for Wet Ones in the mess of his backseat. When he finds them, he cleans Lydia off first, reverently, before wiping himself off. Both their eyes lead from each other to the scattered heap of clothes on the floor of the car, and back to each other again; just like they always do.

“You know, it was you who did this by the way,” he says, pointedly looking at the clothes and their naked selves with a smirk as he tugs her closer.

“Excuse me?” Lydia guffaws, leaning her head into the crook of his neck as she swings her legs onto his lap. “If I remember correctly, I wasn’t the one getting a hard-on on public school property.”

“And if I remember correctly, you were the one who decided to not only change outfits, but to go fucking _commando_ under it. Like Jesus Christ, Lydia. I’m pretty sure any straight guy would’ve busted their load seeing that.”

“Hm,” she says, tapping her chin. “I guess it was a team effort. Fair?”

With the green of her eyes gleaming at him and the white of her skin painting against his moles, Stiles can only bring her hands to his mouth and kiss them, holding them against the scar Peter Hale gave her as he draws a series of kisses against her lips. She sighs into it, melting into something soft and warm as she drags her fingers up from his hip to the tiny scar under his earlobe.

Now, it truly is, “fair.”

**Author's Note:**

> I’m stilesprefers-screamers on Tumblr and loveroflight24 on Twitter! Thank you for reading my mess of Stydia feels, hopefully they’re worth kudos or even some nice lil’ reviews :-)


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